The Good Girls Read online

MAN: I was fishing, see, and my phone got turned off last month, so I—I didn’t have no phone. I came here as soon as I saw her, but I don’t think you’ll find—

  DISPATCHER: Sir, could you tell us where you are?

  MAN: I’m at the OK gas station on Forty-Ninth. Just off Wallis. But it’s half a mile to Anna’s Run from here. You won’t find nothing. She’s gone now. She’s gone.

  DISPATCHER: Sir, have you been drinking? Sir. Sir?

  6

  The Skirmish

  Shoes squeak on the gym floor, the fitness equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. A semi-flat soccer ball thuds along with little enthusiasm. Otherwise the only sounds are the slapping of feet and twenty students huffing in air that smells like cold sweat and disinfectant. Their gym uniforms, green shorts and white tees with the Jefferson-Lorne wolf mascot, are barely sweaty. Most of the students aren’t even trying to play. Avery Cross just shimmied up the climbing rope like it’s what she was born to do and now she’s over in the corner, doing crunches. Two other students play hacky sack. A lot of people stand around.

  Mr. Darrow sits at the bottom of the bleachers. Occasionally he shouts something like “Eyes on the ball, Mr. Fairbanks,” or “Push yourselves!” Then he runs a hand through his thick hair, like he’s trying to tear it out.

  There is only one person who keeps an eye on the ball. There is only one person who pushes herself. Her dark brown ponytail bounces just above her shoulder blades as she runs. She seems to slide between her classmates as if they were ghosts. Her face is pinched, the same way it is when she’s taking notes or working on a quiz. Gwen Sayer puts 100 percent into everything, whether it’s SAT prep or mandatory indoor soccer practice. Some students make a half-hearted attempt to steal the ball, but the smarter ones get out of her way. And Gwen just keeps running, circling back, snagging the ball from whoever the goalie tosses it to.

  The gym door opens, and everyone turns away from the game. With a baring of teeth and a savage kick, Gwen sends the ball spinning into the goal. Then she turns to see two detectives enter, a man and a woman. Their soles leave black rubber streaks on the gym floor. Mr. Darrow hurries over to them.

  Twenty pairs of eyes focus on the two suits. The soccer ball bounces off a corner.

  The male detective gestures at the door. Mr. Darrow nods. Turning to the silent class, he says, “Keep playing. And remember the participation part of your grade. Keep up the good work, Miss Sayer.”

  As soon as the door closes behind Mr. Darrow and the detectives, all pretense drops. The goalie, a small girl named Riley, sits on the floor. Friends begin to clump together, whispers passing between them, building up like rain at the start of a flash flood. Others are silent. Eyes flicker toward Gwen, then away. Gwen tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear and straightens her T-shirt. She goes to retrieve the ball, ignoring her classmates.

  One of the cheerleaders, Natalie, sits on the bottom of the aluminum bleachers. “I can’t believe Darrow thinks we’re going to do class today. Like it’s just a normal day.”

  “I know.” Lyla stretches one long leg. She braided her hair for gym class, pinning it to her head in a crown. She plays with the rose-gold pendant hanging beneath the black ribbon choker. “He’s totally ignoring the tragedy.”

  Gwen rolls her eyes from half a gym away. “Sure. You’re so devastated you had to make sure you remembered your waterproof eyeliner this morning.”

  Her words carry through the hall. Someone snorts. Natalie leans away, but Lyla’s eyes flash and she straightens, face flushing. “Excuse me?”

  Lyla and Gwen haven’t been friendly since Lyla asked Gwen if she was poor because of her sister’s coke addiction. The fact that the whole cheer squad was on Team Emma for the scholarship hasn’t helped.

  Gwen folds her arms. “Cut the fake mourning. Nobody’s fooled. If you really thought this was a tragedy, you’d stop trying to capitalize on it by complaining about having to actually do work.”

  Lyla lifts her chin. “Capitalizing? I was her friend.”

  “No one was her friend,” Gwen snaps. Her words fall into an ugly well of silence. Students shift, trying to ignore the truth. Two red blotches appear on Gwen’s cheeks. She rubs one side of her face as if she could wipe off the blush. “You weren’t exactly there for her in life, and pretending you were all BFFs now doesn’t make you a better person. You might as well be honest about it.”

  Lyla moves forward, catlike, stalking. “Well, honestly, I’m not surprised to see you dry-eyed. Isn’t it convenient that Emma disappeared right before the scholarship announcement? Wasn’t that announcement today?” Her words dig in, full of hurt. “Nobody else stood a chance against you except Emma. So honestly, you’ve got a lot to gain by her disappearance.”

  “I’m not going to be fake about this. I respected Emma that much, at least,” Gwen says.

  “Okay, guys.” Jamie Schill steps in. He’s half a foot taller than either of them, but the nervous tremor in his voice does anything but lend authority. “Maybe we should just get back to the game.”

  Lyla says past him, “If anyone’s being fake, it’s you. Why don’t you drop the act and skip through the halls? You need that scholarship for college, don’t you?” The blush on Gwen’s cheeks spreads. “How badly?”

  Gwen lunges forward—right into Jamie’s hand. His open palm presses against her abdomen and she grimaces. Jamie puts another hand on Lyla’s shoulder. “Guys,” he says. His big eyes are pleading.

  Gwen and Lyla glare for a moment. Then Gwen pulls away. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s get back to the game.”

  Someone tosses the ball. Gwen moves forward to catch it. But Lyla intercepts gracefully, catching the ball with the toe of her shoe. For a moment everything is still. A tipping point. Then Gwen lunges, and Lyla sidesteps, taking the ball with her. They’re off across the floor, pacing each other with ease. Gwen steals the ball, turns back toward Riley’s goal—then Lyla nudges her with a hip, making her stumble, and takes the ball back.

  Somebody shouts, “Foul!” and a few people let out uncomfortable laughs. No one steps in. Gwen spins on her feet, and behind the determined set of her face, rage burns. She sprints across the floor, shoving against Lyla with her shoulder. Her hair whips into Lyla’s face. Lyla’s dainty, smug expression cracks. A snarl breaks through. Their legs tangle, angling for control. Their fingers convulse like claws.

  Lyla elbows Gwen, just as Gwen goes for the ball. Gwen stumbles over the ball and falls with a curse and a thump. She holds her shoulder, face twisted in agony. Lyla bends over her.

  Their eyes meet. “Whatever you did, we’ll find out,” Lyla hisses.

  The gym door bangs open and everyone jumps. Gwen sits up; her whole face burns. She stares at the floor, breathing hard through her nose, clenching her hands to keep them from shaking.

  “Miss Sayer.” Mr. Darrow comes back in. He jabs one thumb over his shoulder. “You’re up for an interview.” The space around Gwen seems to grow. She pushes herself to her feet, setting her jaw, rolling her shoulder gingerly. Mr. Darrow frowns. “What happened to your shoulder?”

  “I fell over the ball,” she says, still staring at the floor. Tears swim in her eyes.

  “Go see Mr. Garson when you’re done. He’ll take a look at it.”

  She nods, and when she looks up again, she’s back in control. She takes a few more steps, stopping in front of Lyla.

  Lyla lifts her pointed chin, glaring. Sweat has beaded on her face. She wipes her forehead, smearing her smoky eye. Gwen’s mouth twists in a bitter smile. “Looks like your eyeliner’s not waterproof after all.”

  AVERY: hey <3 study night? My place? Parents are out till 11

  STUDY BUDDY: I can’t, the Emma stuff has my parents freaking

  AVERY: shoot yea. But im gonna need my hoodie back at some point

  STUDY BUDDY: ?

  AVERY: hoodie. U better remember taking it off me!!!

  STUDY BUDDY: oh I do. ;)

  STUDY BUDDY: but I
also remember giving it back?

  AVERY: ummmm but I don’t have it??

  STUDY BUDDY: ( . . . )

  AVERY: ?????

  7

  The Scholar

  MUÑEZ: The date is Thursday, December 6, 2018, the time is eleven twenty-seven. This is Detective Muñez interviewing Miss Gwen Sayer. Thank you for coming to see us. We’d like to talk to you about—

  GWEN: Emma?

  MUÑEZ: Emma Baines . . . and your sister.

  GWEN: . . . Why?

  MUÑEZ: Due to the similarities of the incidents, we thought it might be wise to take a second look. Could you tell us about your sister?

  GWEN: No, actually. I don’t see what this has to do with Lizzy, if I’m being honest. Our family doesn’t need to talk about this again; we need to put the fake sympathy behind us and get our lives back on track.

  MUÑEZ: We wouldn’t be asking you if we didn’t think it was relevant.

  GWEN: Whatever. You could read my police interview, but why bother? I can recite the story by heart now.

  MUÑEZ: Would you tell us about your sister’s incident?

  Lizzy—Elizabeth—was three years older than me, and she was aiming for the Devino Scholarship, too. Until senior year. Senior year was when everything—well, I don’t know how to say it otherwise, so I’ll have to be vulgar. Everything went to shit.

  Her year started out normal. She was doing honor society, tutoring, basketball, journalism. Naturally, she was acing all her classes. We didn’t realize how much of her schedule was a lie until Principal Mendoza contacted us, close to the end of the first semester. It’s not my parents’ fault they didn’t know. Lizzy had been forging their signatures for months to get out of her extracurriculars. And then she went . . . somewhere. Did something. Mum and Dad tried to figure it all out. Mum picked up extra jobs to pay for counseling. But it was too late by then. Every time I saw her, she looked like she’d slept less and worried more. She stank like an open bottle of beer and she hid pills in the bottom of her underwear drawer. Rumors followed her like the smell. People said she slept with anyone who asked, that she was having an affair with a teacher, with someone’s parent, that she did so much coke she put a hole in her nose . . . the wolves will spread any gossip, and the nastier the better.

  The night she died, she snuck out of the house after Mum and Dad went to sleep. I was studying for math, so I had my music up and my head down. I didn’t realize her car was gone until around one, when I was pulling the window shades down to get ready for bed.

  I stared at the place where her battered old Hyundai Accent had been—she’d saved up for sixteen months and bought it used. But she wasn’t supposed to take it out this late. Staring at the empty spot, I could feel dread filling my stomach. I told myself it was just a party, she’d go and get drunk and fall asleep on someone’s couch, come home the next day and get grounded. I told myself it was her life and she could ruin it if she wanted.

  The phone rang in Mum’s room, this insistent chime like an old rotary phone. A few moments later I heard Mum’s voice, sleep laden, irritable.

  It must be Lizzy, I thought. She was calling because she was drunk or high and needed a ride. But when Mum’s voice came again, it wasn’t angry. “William,” she said. I imagined her shaking my father’s shoulder. “Wake up. Get Gwendolyn.”

  “What’s happening?” I asked as soon as the door opened. Dad’s face was drawn, haggard but awake.

  “Get a coat and get in the truck. It’s your sister.”

  “Why do I have to go get her?” I grumbled, but the dread in my stomach expanded, eating a hole in my belly until I thought my heart would drop through. I put some jeans on over my boy shorts and stuck my feet in my boots, then grabbed my coat.

  The road was slick from the rainstorm, but Mum didn’t care. She kept her foot on the gas, pressing down until we slid half a lane and my dad shouted, “Bronwyn!”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped back, and that was when I realized how not fine she truly was. Her hands shook, so she gripped the steering wheel to steady them. Her knuckles were white, bones ready to pop from the skin. I looked over to see a tear drop from her chin onto her lap.

  “Who was on the phone?” I said.

  “No one,” Mum began, but Dad put a hand on her arm.

  The moonlight shone through the windshield, turning his face pale and cragged like the landscape around us. “It was the police, Gwen.”

  “Why?” My voice quavered, higher than normal. Like my heartbeat. “Where are we going?”

  Jefferson-Lorne is a town that you can cross in ten minutes flat, so I got my answer soon enough. We passed Anna’s Run and turned onto a little side road that leads into the mountains. Mum drove until we saw the flashing blue and red lights, and she parked next to a trailhead and a little black Hyundai Accent. The Accent had been parked haphazardly across three spaces, stopped not a foot from the edge of the ravine.

  “Stay in the car,” Mum said as she unbuckled her seat belt.

  “She deserves to know—” Dad argued.

  Mum gave him a look that would stop a grizzly in its tracks. It’s a look I’d never seen her give before, and I hope I never see it again. “Gwendolyn,” she said, and her Welsh accent came out thick. “Stay. In. The. Car.”

  “Okay.” I pulled my coat tight around me. Dad gave me a last worried look before he got out.

  I leaned against the dash of our truck. In the blinding, dizzying red and blue, I saw the shadows of my parents meet two other shadows, ones with radios at their shoulders and guns at their hips. One of them held up an empty square bottle. Then my parents disappeared down the trailhead, following the police.

  They found my sister at the bottom of that trail.

  They wouldn’t let me see her body.

  We had a closed-casket funeral. I never got to say goodbye. The last memory I have of her is the rusting Hyundai, parked on the edge of the ravine. One rev of the engine from flying over. For a long time I wondered why she bothered to get out.

  I wish I knew more. I know she was found full of whiskey and uppers. I know her bank account was emptied, presumably to pay off her dealer.

  And . . . I know that Emma thought she knew more about the case than any of the detectives from Fort Collins or Denver. Lizzy was Emma’s peer mentor when we were freshmen, and Emma worshipped her. She clearly couldn’t accept that some girls fall. She couldn’t accept that Lizzy just wasn’t the girl she’d been. She couldn’t let it—well, die. Emma became obsessed.

  Fucking Emma.

  MUÑEZ: So you and Emma didn’t get along?

  GWEN: Honestly, no. It wasn’t just the Lizzy stuff and the Devino Scholarship. Emma was . . . How do I put this? Performative. For example, the day of the bullying seminar. She got up, did her little song and dance, got the attention of the whole school, and waltzed out. I wanted to rip her throat out. My family, we can’t mourn for five minutes. Everyone’s always tossing our grief out for the whole world to see.

  MUÑEZ: It’s understandable that Emma’s actions at the seminar angered you. Did she ever tell you why she did it? Are you still angry with her?

  GWEN: No. Yes. I don’t know.

  I wanted to confront her, but as soon as she broke the seminar, Garson and Mendoza hauled her away, and I only saw her making a pinched face as she followed them down the hall, looking so scared that for a moment, she had me convinced. But like I said: she’s performative.

  Anyway, I got to go through a day of Poor Gwen and people treating me like a broken doll. “Don’t talk about Lizzy. Don’t mention Lizzy.” And I finally caught up to Emma as she hurried down the concrete steps that bridged the front of the school with the parking lot, right after school was over. I grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around.

  She’d been crying. Her whole face was blotchy and her short blond hair hung limp and greasy. She looked like a mouse—trembling and harmless and terrified. It made me feel bad for a second. But she’d lied to the whole school an
d exposed my pain. The least she could do was face me now. “What is your problem?” I demanded.

  Emma stared at the ground. “Nothing,” she whispered.

  I got closer. “Bringing up my sister? Contradicting the police? Humiliating me? If you’re going to make up stories, you can have some respect for the dead.” I almost shoved her, but I made myself move away. I didn’t want detention. I have a perfect record. “And if you think it’s going to get me off my game, you’re wrong about that, too,” I added. Because she was always at my throat. Way more competitive than people realized.

  Emma still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I know. I just—I cared about Lizzy. She was like a big sister to me, too.”

  My hand clenched, ready to throw a punch. How dare she? How dare she act like they were sisters, like she cared more than me? Like she could solve a nonexistent mystery because she loved Lizzy more? I stood, trembling with rage, unsure of whether I should cry or scream or hit her. . . . She just turned away and hurried down the stairs, and I went to yearbook and tried to ignore all the extra sympathy I got. And that was that.

  See, I know this about Emma—she loved stories. She was always working on one. Whenever I saw her, she had her notebook out and she was writing. Before class got started. After she finished a quiz. Even when the teacher was talking. She wrote like she’d never be able to get it all out of her head. So when she started going on at length about my sister? It was obviously another story. Maybe she had some compulsion to do it, I don’t know. Or maybe she wanted to distract me from focusing on the Devino Scholarship, and she didn’t mind using dirty tricks.

  Most students can’t hack the schedule we kept for the competition. Emma’s in AP Physics, AP English 2, AP Comparative Government, and AP Calculus. Last year we were in AP English 1, AP United States History, and Spanish together. If there’s an Advanced Placement class, she takes it. And she’s never gone below a 93 percent. I lost a couple of percentage points to her on the last physics test, but I got a perfect score in APCoGo and she only managed a 97. Add to that all the extracurriculars—last year, Emma and I both had speech and debate, National Honor Society, the Jefferson-Lorne Inquirer, and yearbook club. We both worked as student administrators for the office. And she had cheer, while I did mathletes and community service at the Lorne Maternity Ward. This year she’s only doing the paper, cheer, and Honor Society.